Morning Jolt
by QueenSoledad
Summary: Sometimes something small can have a greater effect than expected.


As dawn comes, the sunlight creeps its way through the dusty windows of the shop, setting the thousands of dust particles in the air alight. As it falls across the top half of his face, the man's eyelids twitch and his lips twist with subconscious irritation. He turns away, attempting to find refuge in the crook of his arm, but something in his mind clicks, and he realizes that he'll have to get up soon anyway.

He grasps the bottom cushion of the couch to lift himself up, and he wonders exactly how he'd ended up on the hardwood floor beside the piece of furniture rather than on it. He stretches out his spine with a sharp inhale, still feeling the aftermath of last night's endeavors running up and down his torso like he'd been hogtied with barbed wire.

On top of this, he has the mother of all headaches, most likely the result of several head injuries. He's aware that he may have a concussion, but doesn't remain fixated on it, certain that it will dissipate in a matter of hours, along with all the other internal bruising and hemorrhages.

Normally, he would sleep it off, but today he needs to meet with a client in a city eight hours away. The train leaves at ten, and it's currently eight-forty, if the clock on the far wall isn't dead from years of having various objects smashed into its face.

He checks under the couch, and then the desk, and around the door, cursing under his breath after each and every fruitless attempt. After ten minutes, he looks down at his feet and, seeing the missing boots on his feet, where'd they'd been the entire time, he decides that he isn't awake yet today.

One cold shower (something he's _definitely_ not used to needing) later and he's walking out the door, guitar case swung across his back and his hair still dripping on the lapel of his coat.

Normally, he would be driving, but today the car is being repaired. Having a demon thrown through the windshield and, in a blind rage, set the interior on fire tends to be the ultimate fate of most of his vehicles.

The sidewalk is more cracks than it is pavement, the eventually reclamation of the city by Nature already appearing as roots and various other weeds make their way to the surface. The dandelions are turned to face the sun, their bright petals oddly out of place in this run down neighborhood.

There's a loud crack as his boot comes down on some broken glass, most likely left from his windshield. He knows that it will probably remain where it is for some time, just like the pair of girl's sneakers hanging by the telephone wires and the weeds.

A Hispanic woman in her fifties waves to him from her front porch across the street, a broom in one hand and a five year old swinging back and forth from the other. Though it isn't any larger or newer than those around it, her house is impeccably clean and has a moderately fresh coat of paint. The inevitable signs of disrepair were still there, but there was an obvious level of self-respect shown in the effort that had gone into keeping the place decent.

He nods to her and offers a small smile in greeting, but his brain is still functioning too slowly to muster up much more. That grandson of hers isn't the sharpest, and the man remembers nearly running him over on several occasions. He and the old woman really don't belong here, and perhaps no one does. However, he is well aware that life doesn't work the way it's 'supposed to', and that most people are just doing the best they can.

He turns the corner as a gust of wind comes howling through, making the wet hair sticking to his face feel like it's frozen solid. He has trouble believing that it's already September, that another year has almost passed. Despite the fact that he's shown no signs of his aging stopping (yet), he can't help the feeling that time's going forward entirely too fast, leaving him standing around like a confused idiot wondering where the last five years have gone.

This complaint is usually one of those getting up in age, but, in fact, he's only twenty-two. Though his female coworkers complained of his childish behavior, he can't help the feeling of being old as of late, like he's had twenty years tacked onto him. The cause of this is no mystery to him, though he's not eager to acknowledge it.

Their birthday had been two nights ago, and the resulting depression it had sent him into had lead to a heated argument with Lady. She hasn't called or stopped by since then, and he wonders if she will at all. He knows that he's the one who had started it, and that he should be the one to apologize, but a part of himself, always lurking in the back of his mind, is too proud to do it just yet.

He isn't ready to go back to work yet, not really. The wounds, both flesh and intangible, are still too easy to re-open, but he has to eat and pay the bills somehow.

He passes another block and now he's on a street with actual signs of life on it; cars are passing by on their way to work and people dot the sidewalks. A group of three old ladies with about eight dogs weaving their ways in and around the women's legs passes by, and the white Pomeranian snaps at him, howling like a mental patient. All of the other toy breeds soon follow suit, jumping and pulling at the leashes keeping them from tearing his throat out.

The women rain apologies down on him, but he shrugs it off, telling them its not a problem. He's used to it.

He remembers as a kid, the mastiff next door that would bark at him whenever he ventured even as far as the doorstep. Animals were always able to see what humans couldn't, that they were different, wrong. It had seemed like the entire world was against them, and, in a way, had brought them closer together. It makes him wonder what had been the exact moment that had decided each of their fates, the very different people that they would become.

Across the street, there's a small coffee shop that just opened. He's bewildered by its mere existence, wonders who would be stupid enough to set up shop in such a neighborhood. Then again, if the coffee there is any better the liquid tar they sell at the diner he's usually collapsed in at this time in the morning, he might actually give it a shot.

The place is oddly packed and, needless to say, the tall, red-clad man sticks out in the crowd. The last thing he wants to do today is wait in line, but its moving along surprisingly quickly, speaking well for whoever it was manning the counter.

Orders for pastries and various overly complicated, whipped cream topped drinks are being shouted back and forth in the kitchen, grating on his growing headache. Though he's as much of a fan of sweets as the next guy, he's not in the mood for it today.

When he gets to the counter, all he can see is a mass of long, curly red hair pulled back into pony tail, making the girl's head look like it's on fire. Despite her hair color, she's moderately tanned, though her arms are dotted with freckles here and there. She turns back around and, for half a second, he sees surprise in her face, but her lips soon spread into a bright smile.

He likes her smile, he decides. It's very genuine; though, he's certain her morning hasn't been the most relaxing either, judging by the number of people in here.

"What I can do for ya'?" she asks, absently cracking her knuckles. She looking directly at him, another thing he isn't used to. Her eyes are gold, not light brown or hazel, but the color of molten honey.

"A coffee, black please." He croaks, clearing his throat in surprise at just how bad it sounds.

She offers him a sympathetic look and nods, "One black coffee. Rough night?"

This elicits a spiteful snort of laughter. "You could say that."

"Happens to the best of us, I hope it works out." She says, putting a plastic safety lid on the disposable container.

"How do you know it hasn't already?" he asks, for what reason he isn't currently conscious enough to understand.

She smirks playfully, which only warms him to her more. "Just do. A person who doesn't have anything to worry about wouldn't order a black coffee, unless they're one of those purists, and most of them just grind their own."

"Can you really tell that much about a person by what coffee they order?"

She smiles again, her hand brushing his as she places the cup in it. "Hey, it's my job."

He hears an impatient cough behind him, and looks back to see the long line that had formed.

He turns back and she's smirking again, though there's not a trace of malice in it. "Will that all be all sir?"

He nods and pays the tab with the seventy-five cents that's fortunately left in his wallet.

As he turns to leave and finally let the poor souls behind him order, he glances down at her nametag. It reads: "An". He figures that it must be short for something else.

"Give em' hell." She calls out as he pushes open the door, the small bell at the top of it ringing out as he leaves. He just nods, showing that he heard.

He's already a block away when he realizes that he's standing up a bit straighter and that the pain in his skull is fading. He's also pretty certain that it's not from the coffee.

At exactly nine-fifty, he reaches the train station, crumpling the paper cup in his fist and tossing it into a trashcan. He boards the train and takes his seat by the window, the guitar case propped up in the seat beside him.

The light of the now risen sun fills his clearing blue eyes from the window as the train begins to move forward, taking him with it to a new place filled with different people on a completely fresh day.

He looks down at his hands, his mirror image's face flashing in his mind.

"Give em' hell, huh?' Dante mutters, drawing Ivory out of his coat. His reflection, much like Vergil's face, appears momentarily on its shiny surface, a new look of determination in his eyes, unseen in many months. "I'll be sure to."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Well this is kind of different for me, usually not one to do one-shots. I also don't usually write in the first person, but I like the feel of it quite a bit.**

**Yeah, it's happened to me multiple times that I'll be feeling moody and kind of depressed, and then someone just being nice for no particular reason will help put it into perspective. **

**I didn't add much detail from what exactly had happened in the days prior to this oneshot, as I wanted to create a sense of delirium and confusion, as I'm sure many of you have felt after waking up on the floor with a bit a hangover. **

**If you liked An, I can guarantee that this will not be the last you see of her, as I'm planning to make a full length story in which she serves a central part of the plot, but I want to finish at least one of my other fics before I start that. For now, I'm just making this short intro in order to satisfy the rapidly reproducing plot bunnies.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own DMC. This is evident because Dante is shirtless throughout only one of the original games.**


End file.
